


Two Pairs Are Better Than One!

by my_dear_man



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Adventure, Case Fic, Crossover, Domestic Violence, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Family Feels, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Romance, Victorian, crowley being a huge fan of mister holmes, my attempt at a sherlock holmes adventure which i hope conan doyle approvessss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21904054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_dear_man/pseuds/my_dear_man
Summary: Surprisingly, the Anti-Christ was not the first child to go missing under Aziraphale and Crowley's care. There was another before him. It was a long story and at least they received help from a certain celebrity at that era. They both wondered if the story was ever written. Maybe it was and maybe it sat quietly in John Watson's archives.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 52





	1. The Problem

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been rattling around my head for months and finally, I am able to sit down and write it. I always wanted to combine my two favourite pair. The detective and his biographer meeting an angel and a demon. Of course, I do intend to write the steamy chapters but that might just be its separate aftermath story. 
> 
> More chapters are in the making. I do have lovely original characters to introduce so stay tuned!  
> I hope you guys will enjoy this. Leave some likes and comments on your way out. Have a good day, fellas!

“You’re late. Again.”

They agreed on the same place which was St. James Park. The one place reserved for discussions that held a sense of urgency or in this case, of great complications for Aziraphale in particular. The year was 1898 and Crowley, expecting the angel to ignore him for at least a decade or two, received a telegram from him. _“A situation of the utmost importance,”_ as it read. The demon shrugged when he read it and of course, came as soon as he could.

“Sorry. Traffic’s hell these days,” said Crowley, tossing breadcrumbs at a duck-less pond.

“Blaming the traffic as usual,” remarked Aziraphale, equally tossing breadcrumbs at a half-frozen pond.

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale beside him. He looked irritated, fidgety and paler than the snow that covered all of London city. Something’s very wrong indeed. The demon decided to spare his friend the tense ‘how have you been’ and ‘what are you up to these days’. 

“Right. Out with it, angel. What’s happened? It’s nearly Christmas and I hoped the smell of stuffed goose and minced meat pies would have gotten you excited.”

“I can’t even think of food right now. Not with what’s happened,” he replied weakly.

“Please, do tell me what’s happened.” Crowley grew worried with each passing glance. The very idea that Aziraphale suddenly lost interest in food should never even exist.

“It’s Benji. He’s been kidnapped! The poor child!” Aziraphale trembled slightly as if he was keeping himself in check but failing rather miserably at it. He could feel his throat tighten and the tears threatening to spill. “I-I don’t know what to do anymore, Crowley. I’m at my wit's end. I can’t even miracle anything now for Heaven’s sake,” said the angel, pulling at his gloved hands and fighting the urge to jump in the pond. He turned to Crowley, struggling to find the right words to say.

“Hang on. Hang on. What do you mean you can’t miracle anything? Secondly, Benji, the boy you’ve been tutoring these two years for Lord Parker, was kidnapped?”

“Y-Yes. I took, uhm, a week’s leave for this year’s Christmas. Believe me when I say that convincing AR (Angle’s Resources) was a miracle on its own. I’m certain they hate me by now. So, well, you won’t see me doing anything miraculous, my dear.” Aziraphale planned everything in advance like he normally does. He was determined this year to go off duty (which no angel has ever done, ever). The angels regarded Christmas Day as the most tiresome and busiest day of the year, blessings to be made, miracles to perform, all those things you would expect these divine creatures to check off on their to-do-list. Aziraphale silently dreaded the amount of paperwork he will receive after this.

“I would gladly help you get the child back, but unless I know his exact whereabouts, I can’t do much of anything, Aziraphale.” It’s true. Yes, both of them are capable of healing broken bones, pausing time and shapeshifting into any form they desire but there are things that even divine powers could not intervene. Ironically, retrieving a missing boy for a start.

“That’s why I asked you here. I really am lost, and I can’t stand to see Lord Parker wracked with anxiety for his missing son. I’ve been teaching that boy history since he was ten, Crowley and now he’s probably shipped off to America or-or- “ Worse thoughts came to mind, far too horrible for him to speak aloud so he pressed his lips and let the quiet convey his meaning.

Crowley let his gloved hands curl around the angel’s, “We’ll find him. I’ll help you, honest. I know he means a lot to you.” He squeezed his hand before finally letting go, should the people around them notice and make assumptions of their own.

“Thank you. Oh, thank you, my dear.” Relief washed over Aziraphale, his burdens now weighed less with Crowley’s help and concern.

“Now, let’s not waste any more time. I know just the person for this job,” said Crowley as his smile slowly grew into a grin.

“We’ve already informed Scotland Yard about this.” They were already out of the park and into the bustling streets with Crowley waving his cane to hail down a cab. “I never said we were going to the police.”

The cab driver tipped his hat and gave a lop-sided smile to the two gentlemen in front of him, happy to be of service. “Where are ya off to, sirs?”

“Baker Street. 221B Baker Street.”


	2. Mr Fell and Mr Crowley

John Watson climbed out of the bed at precisely 8.00 in the morning, took a lovely hot bath, groomed his well-cared moustache, wrapped himself in his worn-out dressing gown and finally settling down for the most important meal of the day. He noticed the toasts looked extra golden this morning as he proceeded to smear it with globs of butter and jam. ‘Mrs Hudson, ever a perfectionist when it comes to her cooking,’ thought Watson with his mouth already humming and chewing at the same time.

Watson was about to leaf through the newspapers when a familiar face emerged from the bedrooms. He smiled seeing the half-asleep detective still in his night-clothes, yawning like a bear who just woke up from a long winter. Watson poured the lukewarm coffee into a cup, passing it over to Holmes who stared blearily at the toast and eggs in front of him.

“Good morning, dear,” said Watson.

“Hngh,” replied Holmes. At first, they ate in silence, relishing the calm of today’s chilly morning before Watson opened a discussion of today’s errands.

“The tree should be here before mid-day. I hope you’ll be fully dressed by then.”

“The what?”

“The Christmas tree, Holmes. Mrs Shelby from our last case, she’s giving a tree as a thank you gift for saving her sister. Oh, but the decorations are still in the storage room. I should ask Wiggins for help.”

“Mhm, splendid, John.” Holmes was picking through his meal, deciding that he was neither hungry nor interested in the conversation at the moment.

“Do cheer up. It’s the festive season. Mrs Hudson will be inviting her relatives over. I’ve arranged a dinner with your brother at Pall Mall. Not to mention the presents still needing to be wrapped for your little Irregulars.”

“As terribly exciting as that sounds, I’d rather a case should show up at our doorstep. Honestly, have all the criminal minds of London took themselves for a month’s holiday? No, don’t answer that.” The detective grumbled to himself as he sank further into his seat, abandoning breakfast altogether and choosing to smoke instead.

“It’s only been, what? A month. You’ve had your fair share of _‘intellectual draughts’_ as you call it. Something will bound to turn up, Sherlock. They always do.”

No sooner after Watson said this, a knock came at the door. Mrs Hudson appeared, holding a business card in her hands. “Pardon me gentlemen but a young man and his friend are requesting to see you, Mister Holmes.” The gentle lady placed the card on the table.

_“Mr Zira A. Fell. Tutor of Basic Mathematics, History, Geography and English Literature. Accepting children from the age of eight to thirteen. 333 Cavendish Street, London.”_

“Speak of the devil. A case, dear Watson!” Holmes jumped at the prospect of a case and after so long he’s waited.

“Well then, you better take a bath first,” teased the loyal landlady.


	3. Regarding Benjamin Ashbourne

“Are you sure about this, Crowley?” The buttermilk biscuits were perfect, but a gnawing doubt crept at Aziraphale’s mind. The two of them sat awkwardly on the settee facing opposite of the two men whom they have agreed to put their entire faith in retrieving back Benji.

“Course I’m sure. Trust me. If anyone can solve a mystery, it’s the great Sherlock Holmes.”

The two continued exchanging whispers to each other, unaware that Holmes and Watson were witnessing (and hearing) their entire discourse. The sleuth cleared his throat and began with the usual routine of uninteresting pleasantries.

“I trust the traffic has improved today. Please, gentlemen, how can I be of assistance to you both?”

Aziraphale straightened his posture and told the detective everything he needs to know.

“I am infinitely grateful for your kindness, Mr Holmes for the situation I am facing is absolutely dire. As you have read from my card, I am a tutor. I teach many subjects, but my strongest subject is classic literature. I mainly tutor children around the age of eight to thirteen. Two years ago, I have been hired by my employer, Lord Parker Ashbourne.”

“The tailor?” asked Watson. Aziraphale nodded before taking a sip from his cup.

“Yes, quite right. The man who made a fortune from high-quality suits and dresses, revolutionizing the fashion industry entirely. The finest tailor company in London! Even the French admires him for his unique eye for design and colour. One time he gave me a fine piece of tweed as a gift, accessories and all. Where was I, again? Oh yes. Lord Parker Ashbourne has a twelve-year-old son whom he deeply cherishes. His only heir. He liked the way I managed and taught children, so he hired me immediately after my interview. The son, Benjamin Parker, was a high-spirited child, full of life and wonder.”

Aziraphale looked down at his teacup. Suddenly, memories of that sweet boy flooded his mind. He missed him dearly. How Benji would tug at his coat, begging Aziraphale to stay with him for dinner. How he would ask Aziraphale for more sweets when he manages to name all the early kings and queens of England. How he would ask Aziraphale to perform Shakespeare, just so the boy could tease him for it.

“His son was kidnapped. All I ask is for you to find him and return him to Lord Parker Ashbourne. Name any price. I will readily pa- “

“I’m paying.” Crowley, who has been listening to the angel’s tale, straightened his sunglasses. “Mr Fell is short on cash at the moment. He took up the teaching job to save up money. A bookshop, was it?” A small grin formed on the demon’s lips which left Aziraphale flustered when his soon-to-be bookshop was mentioned suddenly. ‘You won’t be paying anything, angel. Let your rich employer do that for you,” thought Crowley.

“Y-yes, my dear. Regardless, we must find him. W-Will you take the case, Mr Holmes? Doctor Watson?”

At first, Holmes said nothing. He simply observed the two strange gentlemen. How odd. They seem to be very close and yet; they were nothing alike. Mr Fell wore nothing but white and beige while his friend, Mr Crowley, wore everything that was black, grey or in between. Mr Fell was a short plump man, a very chatty fellow who seems to enjoy food as much as his dear Watson. Mr Crowley, on the other hand, was tall, thin and remained unsmiling during the whole meeting. He barely exchanged words during their introduction to one another, choosing only to address his last name and leaving out the details for the detective’s own deduction. Holmes knew instantly when they both entered the room. Their occupations, age, hobby, interest, personality, foot size, favourite cigar. They were utterly transparent to him but at the same time, they were _not_. As if there was some unseen veil shrouding his sight, hiding whatever needs to be hidden and it left him frustrated. That _something_ was beyond his sight and reasoning.

“I have no reason to turn down this problem. A boy’s life is at stake. I will gladly accept this case but before we move any further, may I ask a few questions?”

“Certainly. Ask away.”

“Your employer, Lord Ashbourne. Has he asked you to sit here as a representative? It is odd that the child’s tutor should go through all the trouble of seeking my assistance rather than his own father. Secondly, I assume Lord Ashbourne has contacted Scotland Yard regarding the matter and yet, no news has sprung forth about his missing son. Surely, the man would want the whole city to know of his son’s kidnapping. Unless…”

“Lord Ashbourne would like to keep this little tragedy a hush-hush business,” added Crowley coldly.

“Mostly due to his reputation as a lord. His name spreads even to the Continent. There’s no surprise there,” replied Watson, eyeing at Crowley rather sternly. Watson didn’t like this Crowley person very much. He has a strange name and an equally strange appearance.

“Yes, that’s right. The police have been informed but everything stays out of the papers for now. As of yesterday, my employer fell ill with a fever after tirelessly working alongside the police to find his poor Benjamin, so I have gone in his place instead to seek your help. It has been two days and no leads nor clues were discovered during the investigation."

“Two days?! My god, Scotland Yard really are abandoning their duties in favour of decorating their blasted Christmas tree. Watson if you would be so kind as to write down the details and Mr Fell, let’s start from the beginning. Tell me everything you know and leave nothing out. Every detail, as trifling as it may seem, holds great importance in every mystery.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More chapters in the making. Work has been hectic for me so there will be slow updates but never fret, I won't be gone long. Leave some kudos and likes on your way out. Thank you!!


	4. The Ugly Mansion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update, huzzah! Enjoy! Oh, and happy new year! It's 2020 and I feel so old :')

_“Splendid! Then we shall meet again at Lord Parker’s residence in Mayfair. Here, let me write down the address. I wouldn’t want the both of you getting lost now. You can’t miss it. His estate sticks out like a sore thumb, mind you, Mr Holmes. I shall let him know of your arrival and that’s where ‘the game will be afoot’ as you say.”_

_“You’re embarrassing me, angel. Thank you for your time Mr Holmes, and you too, Doctor Watson. I’m a massive fan of your writing. Good day, gentlemen.”_

~ ~ ~

“I confess it is rather strange, Watson,” mused the detective, wrapping his thick blue scarf around his neck, a gift from Mycroft which he often uses during the cold seasons but never in front of his brother.

Holmes and Watson excited the cab only to be greeted by a gust of winter’s blistering cold wind, threatening to snatch away their warm scarfs and hats. The sun was no longer hiding behind grey clouds but the shimmering sunlight seemed to bring about the illusion of warmth rather than actually easing the bone-chilling cold being endured by the people of London city. Snow piled ankle-deep in the parks with no children to speak of while the cab-filled streets will likely share the same fate should the street cleaners take a day’s holiday. The two stared at their client’s mansion, patiently waiting for a servant to open the gates and lead them inside. Watson leaned hard on his walking stick, the prominent ache in his leg already giving him a noticeable limp.

“I assume you’re referring to Mr Fell and Mr Crowley? They do come off as strange but I’m sure they are fine fellows. I particularly enjoy Mr Fell’s company. He’s quite the-“

“No, no, no. I meant the mansion that we are currently staring at. How peculiar that a Lord should have such a dreary and drab looking mansion such as this. The architectural style is late Georgian era. The stonework has been painted over but it has faded considerably over the years. A few tiles are missing from the roof while the brickwork of the archway is in danger of falling unto unsuspecting guests. The garden too has seen better days,” explained the detective, pointing at the noticeable defects of the structure and occasionally adding a dramatic flourish of hand gestures for emphasis.

Watson observed their client’s residence. Yes, he must admit that the mansion was in dire need of minor renovation works seeing how the cracks from the brickworks are left unplastered and the garden hedges are neglected from a good trimming. Watson turned to Holmes, suddenly aware of what his friend was implying.

“It’s too early to assume that.” Not long after Watson uttered these words, a tall well-dressed man appeared from the insides of the mansion, hastily making his way towards his guests in a silly sprint across the stone covered pathway. The gates swung open with an awful screech, causing the servant to apologise profusely over it.

“Please follow me, sirs. I do hope you two haven’t been waiting in the cold for too long,” said the very tall servant, bowing timidly as his way of apologising. They walked silently towards the ugly mansion that loomed taller with each step they took.

“Yes, I agree it’s too early to say. However, should the insides of his home appear more dreadful than the exterior, we can safely deduce that our client is struggling in terms of money.”

~ ~ ~

John Watson has been in the criminal-chasing-mystery-solving business for nearly a decade so it was no surprise for the good doctor to pick up his friend’s keen eye for observation, albeit ineffectively. He didn’t need to be a consulting detective to know the state of Lord Parker Ashbourne’s financial standing based on the obvious unkept, understaffed, bare-walled interior of the mansion they were currently sitting in. Deep in his heart, he felt pity for their unseen client who, not only was struggling to keep his residence afloat, lost his only child to a wretched criminal near Christmas Day!

Images of the blossoming youth tied and bound in some filthy abandoned apartment. Gagged and submitted to unspeakable horrors and for what? Ransom money from a financially struggling father who could barely pay his staff. The very thought of the situation was enough to leave Watson trembling from anger. Holmes noticed the tightening grip of his partner’s hand upon his walking cane.

“Don’t lose heart, my dear Watson,” whispered Holmes, their gloved fingers brushing against one another, one of Holmes’s small gestures of affection which he reserves entirely for his beloved biographer. Suddenly, the front door opened with a groan, revealing the entrance of Mr Fell and Mr Crowley. Upon meeting each other’s gaze, Aziraphale gave a cheerful wave in return while Crowley simply tipped his hat before handing it over to the flustered servant.

“Mr Holmes, I am so thrilled you being here! I cannot express my sincerest gratitude towards both of you. Have you met Lord Ashbourne yet?”

“It is our pleasure, Mr Fell. No, we have been given orders to wait here for the time being. If I may be frank with you, may I ask regarding Lord Ashbourne’s current state of his company? Sadly, I am not well versed in the clothing industry and neither is my friend.”

“Oh, well, I…uhm…" Aziraphale had a hard time forming the sentences to answer the detective’s question when Crowley interrupted the angel with a question of his own.

“You’ve never mentioned that your employer is nearly bankrupt?”

“Crowley!”

“What? It’s true. Look, I’ve been to half a dozen of these posh parties from Lords and Ladies alike with their fancy Rembrandts and Boschs filling up their velvet-covered walls, servants at every corner of the room, a grand piano in the kitchen, bloody Michelangelo sculptures in the bathroom as a centrepiece decoration. Either your employer enjoys living modestly like a middle-class Englishmen or he’s simply run dry.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat but not before giving Crowley a piercing look which roughly translated to, ‘ _If you really wanted to play detective then maybe you should consider switching places with Mr Holmes instead. Maybe we’ll find the child faster.’_

Crowley, refusing to let the angel drag his love for detective stories through the mud, gave a look which equally meant, _‘Maybe I will do that and it would have spared me the agonising minutes being forced to follow you like I’m your bumbling Watson.’_

_‘You will leave Doctor Watson out of this! You are not even forced to tag along with me and you can very much leave whenever you like. For instance, now would seem like a good time.’_

_“Oh, please. You would still need me to miracle you up a cab since you’ve never hailed down one before.”_

Watson nudged at Holmes’s arm, enquiring of the two gentlemen’s staring contest that they were passionately engaged with.

“I think they are engaged with some sort of lover’s quarrel, Watson.”

The silent bickering would have escalated into a more passive-aggressive territory (which would have resulted into a century’s worth of them avoiding each other) if it weren’t for the appearance of the same timid servant who earlier showed the four of them inside. He walked up to Holmes, informing him of the lord’s current state of health, “Lord Ashbourne is much too ill to venture downstairs so he has requested that the discussion must be done in his bedroom. He is very sorry to inconvenience all of you.”

“Please, it is no inconvenience to us whatsoever. Watson, I think you have another patient to look after. Mr Fell. Mr Crowley. I’m sure you will be joining us?”

Crowley and Aziraphale, as if finally stumbling back to reality, blinked at Holmes and Watson.

“Y-Yes, Mr Holmes. We should not waste any more time, isn’t that right, Crowley?” said Aziraphale through gritted teeth.

“Ngk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I apologize for the snail-paced updates. Next chapter will be much longer, promise! (I love writing Crowley and Aziraphale at the moment haha)


	5. Regarding Lord Parker Ashbourne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will you look at that, I finally updated the fic :D Life has been stressful but that's not an excuse for me to slack off! The story in my head is still clear but of course, updates will be snail-paced. I appreciate your patience, even though I don't deserve it. haha

Watson, upon laying eyes on their anticipated client, noticed how terribly small and sickly Lord Ashbourne appeared on his gigantic bed alongside an army of cushions and pillows surrounding him. Watson doubted that the cushions would make anyone comfortable. The room smelt strongly of laudanum and tobacco which was all too familiar to the good doctor and very much despised by Crowley. He couldn’t stand the smell of those chemicals. It made him dizzy and nauseous when naturally medicines were supposed to do the exact opposite. Aziraphale steadied himself as he carefully kneeled on his knees beside Lord Ashbourne who regarded him as a friend rather than his son’s favourite tutor. Instantly, the sick man beamed brightly when Aziraphale came into his view, gripping weakly at the angel’s hand.

“How are you feeling?” Aziraphale could not conceal the worry in his voice when he felt the warm heat of his friend’s hand.

“I think you can answer that question judging by my appearance, my dear Fell. Oh, come now, you don’t need to make that face. I’m getting by. It’s a mild fever they said. I should be up and running in no time.” Aziraphale was not convinced of Lord Ashbourne’s words. He knows how often sick people lie. Ashbourne saw the way Aziraphale fell silent and tutted in response to his friend’s grim face.

“My friend, how about we discuss this matter in my next appointment with the doctors? We must focus on what is truly important. Mr Sherlock Holmes, I wish we could have met on more cheerful circumstances. Alas, my poor son, you must find him! I pray night and day for his safety, and I’ll continue to pray until he is within my embrace again.” Lord Ashbourne looked up with pleading eyes as the aloof detective decided to proceed with his observation. The pale face, sunken eyes, cracked lips and a hoarse voice were all clear signs of extreme anxiety and stress due to overexertion on his aged body. A glass portrait of his family sat neatly on his bedside table with the accompanied labelled bottles of laudanum and cigar stubs. Father. Mother. Boy. A small family but, a very happy one.

Holmes sat on the chairs that were arranged by the servant and cleared his throat. Soon, all four of Lord Ashbourne’s guests were sitting down, the three gentlemen eagerly waiting for the detective to set the game in motion. Watson with pen and paper sat readily on his lap while Aziraphale and Crowley were practically on the edges of their seats. There was no way in Hell or Heaven that Crowley would miss out on this opportunity to see the famous detective engaged in his most natural habitat! A crime scene, a well-established Lord, a horrible child kidnapping, a criminal on the loose on Christmas Day. Crowley imagined all the boxes should be ticked for Doctor Watson to write up a Christmas special this year. ‘What would the title be called this time?’ thought Crowley. 

_‘The Great Kidnapping of Benjamin Ashbourne. No, too boring. Should a child abduction be described as ‘great’? It needs to have flavour. Something that can tempt the readers.’_

_‘The Case of The Dreaded Child Snatcher. Dear Satan, that one belongs to Edgar Allan Poe’s stories. The Christmas element must be there. A little cheerful and light-hearted, perhaps?’_

_‘The Miraculous Tale of Benji and His Father: A Christmas Special. Too obvious? It definitely feels like something Charles Dicken’s would write. Who knew coming up with a title for a story would be this hard?’_

While Crowley was busy figuring out the most appropriate title for Doctor Watson’s undecided and most likely unwritten story, Mr Holmes began his enquires.

“Mr Fell has given me his account of the story. Your faithful employee was here on the night of the kidnapping. Now, I intend to listen to your version of the tale. I trust, my Lord, for you to be honest and frank with me. Anything of interest, however trivial they may seem, must be put into light.” Holmes’s eyes were set hard like flint as his demeanour grew cold and composed.

“Of course, but before I begin, do you know who I am, Mr Holmes? What my trade revolves around? How I earned this title and so on?” Lord Parker Ashbourne sat straighter against his pillows; arms stretched out to retrieve a cigar from the bedside table. Aziraphale was kind enough to light it for him, but not without a hint of concern showing on his face. “I would be happy to give you an introduction of myself since you do not seem to strike me as a person to know- “ The sickly man was cut off mid-sentence by Holmes as he proceeded to describe everything there was to know about his client.

“You are Lord Parker Ashbourne, age 48, currently head chairman of the most well-known clothing and design company, _Bourne_. Established in 1885, well-liked and praised in France, Belgium and America. The success of your company nearly rivals with those of your competitors, _Hermès, Carter’s, House of Worth_ and you were fortunate enough to become partners to some of these companies. Your main trade is formal suits, dresses and much-needed jewellery and accessories. Yet, your sales have plummeted since the death of your wife, as stated in the papers. You persisted over the years but sadly, your company is teetering over the edge as we speak. You realised your savings could no longer sustain the family for more than two years, so you have sold off everything of value in this mansion in hopes to start your life anew with your sister in Hampstead which explains the bare interiors of the place. Your favourite cigar is _Cuesta-Rey_ , quite an exotic Cuba taste but I prefer to smoke a pipe myself.”

Lord Ashbourne and Aziraphale blinked. Meanwhile, Crowley remained unblinking, but a shocked expression was there, nonetheless. The cigar in his grip left unmoving as the ashes slowly pilled on the bedsheets. “About my sister. Was it because of the- “

“Letters on your side table? Yes. The address and name were there. Have I missed anything, sir?”

“N-No. They were all accurate. My goodness! Doctor Watson’s description of your talents were no exaggeration,” said the lord, quite amused by how Mr Holmes nonchalantly re-told the whole tragic business of his company. Watson, however, was compelled to disagree.

“On the contrary, Mr Holmes hasn’t a single clue of yourself, sir. He simply did a little reading beforehand. It has always been his method to do so before questioning his clients. It’s all simple, really. As for the impending bankruptcy and regarding your sister. Well, it’s rather quite obvious,” explained Watson briskly.

Doctor Watson has unfortunately lost count after the last dozens of _‘Spectacular observation, Mr Holmes!’, ‘Remarkable!’_ and the occasional _‘I say, that was utterly brilliant!’_ If Sherlock Holmes pointed out that a client’s favourite flavour of cake was vanilla with strawberry jam fillings upon seeing him or her relishing a piece of said cake, they would have gawk in awe, as if Holmes has made the most unobtainable discovery of mankind. Sometimes during these types of conversations, the good doctor craves for the same spotlight of fame bestowed upon his friend, to be recognised in the streets and respected by the public and policemen alike. The public is already comfortable with Watson’s role as a sidekick and they were not too keen on changing it anytime soon.

Holmes gave a quick glance at his partner, his look which had a meaning of its own, roughly translated as, _‘We’ll talk about this later, dear.’_

“Ah, I see. Simple or not, I will put my absolute faith into your hands. Let’s see, it happened all so suddenly…”

A hush came over the group. Lord Parker Ashbourne sipped a glass of water before setting it down, he turned towards the four men in front of him and unfolded the tale.

///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave some kudos on your way out, thank you! <3


	6. A Cold Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two new chapters! (Chapter 5 and 6) Thank you for the nice feedback and comments. I really appreciate it so much!!!!

‘It all seemed very normal on that day with no such excitement to be had, and frankly, Benjamin was restless throughout the entire morning. I assume his agitation was caused by the heavy snowstorm that fell upon this city which resulted in massive traffic jams and deserted parks, trapped and alone without a friend to entertain him, he was constantly in a sour mood. Regrettably, I spent most of my days in my study, drowning in debt, letters and telegrams, even when I did manage to find time for myself, I would have slept or rested since my health has always been poor. Benjamin would whine about it, saying how I never leave my work alone or how much I’ve changed since Alice, my late wife, passed away. He tells everything to Mrs Saunders, his nanny, and very often to Mr Fell.’

‘I love my son. I love him as any father would deeply cherish his son, and to see him in anguish because I could not even spare him the time of day, pained me to no end. Thank God, I found you, my dear friend. If not for you, my son would have drifted farther away from me until one day, he’ll only regard me as a stranger, living under the same roof. No longer could I bear to see my Benjamin upset by his solitude that I came to the decision to ring up, Mr Fell. Benjamin is very fond of his tutor. He practically counts the days for his next lesson and begs him to stay for dinner. He is genuinely attached to Mr Fell since they do everything in pairs. They would study together, play together, lunch together. The two were inseparable, that even the nanny, who bathed and fed him since he was an infant, failed to win his affection. Even his useless father had no chance of competing.’ 

‘A-Anyway, I told him of my proposal for the evening. He warmed to the idea of Mr Fell joining us for dinner, but his restlessness persisted as he continued pacing up and down the empty hallways, pestering the cook for more food. Things went on as they should be and by the time the clock struck seven, Mr Fell was already waiting at the entrance, bottle of wine and chocolates in hand. We dined and talked endlessly after that, but I was pleased to see Benjamin smiling once again at the dinner table, occasionally interrupting our conversation just so he could catch Mr Fell’s attention. Being a good tutor himself, Mr Fell joked and teased throughout the meal until all of us we’re clutching at our bellies with laughter. Oh, my fellow, you need not hide that smirk on your face. You gave joy to this family more than I ever could.’

‘At ten o’clock, our plates were spotless, and the bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape was half-empty. I encouraged Benjamin to retire to his bedroom for tomorrow I promised him a trip to my sister’s home in Hampstead to see his cousins. The table was cleared by the maid and soon the house fell silent when all the servants of the house retired for the day. The only ones left awake were me and Mr Fell. We stayed up late, idly reminiscing of the three years he has served me. I told him mostly of my early happy days with Alice, expressing my misery regarding my failing business and complaining of my poor health which took away any happiness I could have spent with Benjamin. To be honest, I too am lonely when the friends I have trusted for so long, abandoned me when the money ran dry. I wasn’t the least bit surprised, but it was painful all the same.’

‘Suddenly, the sound of a muffled crash came from upstairs. And yet, it was so faint that one could have easily dismissed it as the howling wind and with a mansion as big as mine, bangs, crashes or cries travelled with some difficulty. I-I never would have thought that…’

‘Excuse me, gentlemen. As I was saying, we didn’t make much of that sound and went about with our conversation. At half-past eleven, we were ready to head upstairs but not before Mr Fell prompted me to check on Benjamin. He confessed that he felt uneasy that night and I quickly agreed so as to reassure him of his worries. I stood in front of Benjamin’s bedroom door but as soon as I turned the handle, it would not open! I knew that my son’s room had no lock of any kind, so it petrified me that somehow, I was unable to enter as if a large object or furniture was placed against it. Blood drained from my face, dreading of what has happened inside and how I have been so foolish not to have investigated that noise from before. I knocked and called out to him, but I was only greeted by an eerie silence which sent a shiver running down my spine. I knocked again, harder this time as my voice raised louder and louder with each passing minute that he does not answer me. Mr Fell must have heard the ruckus and instantly came to see the cause of it.’

“H-He’s not answering! The door. It won’t budge. Please. Please get someone!” 

‘My state of mind was not right, I tried to remain calm and convince myself that my son might have intentionally locked himself in his room out of spite. He was prone to sulk whenever he got emotional. Mr Fell, seeing the desperation in my voice ran as quickly as he could to fetch Thomas, the butler. The unfaltering banging on his door continued until soon, the rest of the servants were awake and out of their beds. Thomas was a strong fellow, despite his lean figure, managed to push open the door but not without some difficulties. The object which obstructed the entrance was a low cabinet which was stored mostly his clothes and coats. I ordered the other servants to search the house for any traces of an intruder, ensuring that they were armed with weapons should they need to defend themselves.’

‘When we entered the room, our eyes instantly settled upon the windows which were left ajar, letting the falling snow and freezing air into the already chilly room. A long sturdy rope was found tied to one of the wardrobe’s leg which trailed across the floor, leading itself outside from the open windows. We were certain that the rope was used as his only access to escape and scaling down would already be easy when my kidnapped child was unconscious. The policemen…they found a wet handkerchief which reeked of chloroform. The abductor used it on him in order to avoid a more aggressive struggle. The investigator concluded that Benjamin must have been asleep before the man subdued him or else, he would have screamed and alerted the both of us.’

‘I ordered for Thomas to run as quickly as he can to the nearest police station while the other servants scrambled to the front garden and backyard of the mansion, in a vain search for my kidnapped child. There was no trace of footprints, Mr Holmes! It puzzled me to no end when the snow was ankle-deep, and yet, not even a sign of that man could be found. Even if the kidnapper would want to erase the traces of his footprints from the snow he would not have succeeded in time before the servants began their search. As for Mr Fell, he offered to help in any way he could. My steadfast friend was beside me throughout that miserable night. The police arrived around two in the morning and the search continued until five when eventually the men returned bearing no clue as to where the kidnapper might have taken away my son. In the midst of everything, I was dazed beyond words that such a misfortune has once again fallen unto my family. I have already lost my wife and now…my only son. Even now, it feels like a dream. Or rather...a nightmare.'

‘I hardly slept or eaten in the past two gruelling days. I remained alert through every step of the investigation by Scotland Yard officials, answering every question they ask and giving them access to every room of this place. I psychically was unable to let my mind or body rest, knowing this villain is out there with my son and I am here, hopeless and weak to even venture together with the search party. I have no more to say at this point of the story, only that I plead to you, Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson, you must find him.’

///

Crowley straightened his glasses and coughed (quite loudly) into his handkerchief which pierced through the thick gloomy air that manifested itself inside the room, earning him questioning stares from Lord Parker and Watson. Meanwhile, Aziraphale was content with remaining silent and looking miserable in his seat which he was doing very well.

“That’s why the great Sherlock Holmes is here for, eh?” Crowley intended to lighten up the mood.

“Eh? I’m sorry, who are you again?” Lord Parker, only just realising another person was sitting beside Mr Fell. The tall lanky fellow looking as if he has just walked away from a funeral service, dressed in black with an intimidating face to match caught Lord Parker off guard. Crowley, being quite hurt that Aziraphale never took the time to introduce him properly, cleared his throat.

“Mr Crowley, sir. A _long-time friend_ of Mr Fell. As a matter of fact, I’m the very person who suggested to bring the detective here. Mr Fell here agreed right from the start and so, here we are.” Emphasis on long-time friend was required in any introduction.

“Y-Yes, that’s right, sir.” Aziraphale didn’t have the heart to deny that Crowley became the only source of light during these trying times. 

The room fell silent again but this time, the gentlemen’s attention shifted towards the closed-eye detective with his prominent square chin rested on his steepled fingers. His face which was deep in concentration (which was, by now, familiar to Watson) and somehow, they could already hear the mechanical sounds of cogs and wheels turn inside the detective’s attic-like brain. Holmes calmly opened his eyes and in a nonchalant manner, directed a series of question towards his client.

“The story holds remarkable interest. Thank you, sir. Now, I just require several answers before we begin a thorough investigation of your son’s room and the other parts of this household. What room was directly above Benjamin’s bedroom?” 

“The kitchen.”

“Did the police find the kitchen window open at that time?”

“No, they were closed. The maid closes them every night before they retire for the day.”

“Hmph. I see. Another question, sir. At what time would you place hearing the sudden faint noise of a crash upstairs?”

“I would bet it was a quarter past eleven as I glanced at the clock.”

“And when you knocked on your son’s bedroom door, I assumed it was nearly twelve at that time. Can you confirm it?”

“Y-Yes. I cannot really deny it. Everything seems so very foggy,” murmured the small sickly man as he covered his ashen face with trembling hands as if struggling to bring back the painful memories from that cruel night. Aziraphale was quick to comfort him as he laid his hand upon the lord’s shoulder, reassuring him with hushed encouragements which sparked an annoyed look from Crowley.

“I have no more questions. I think we should make haste before the trail grows cold. Watson, I purpose you pair up with Mr Crowley and interview the servants of this mansion. The maid, the cook, the butler, all of them if you are able. You will report back to me in the kitchen once you've gathered everything of relevance. Meanwhile, I’ll be needing Mr Fell’s knowledge and familiarity with the child’s room. You will come along with me to provide me with a clear picture of this boy’s mental state.” Holmes barked out orders as indifferently as a war captain would act in front of his soldiers. Aziraphale had no qualms but Watson and Crowley were not too charmed with the idea of working together, let alone sit inside the same room without their respective partners.

“But, Holmes, surely I can tag along with you-"

“Mr Holmes, I’m sure I would be suited with-"

“Nonsense, you have your ways of handling puffy-eyed maids more efficiently than I can and Mr Crowley, your assistance in these interviews will be crucial in this investigation. Right, Mr Fell, please lead the way.” 

Ironically, the detective was already leading the way as Aziraphale followed from behind, but the angel managed to wave goodbye at Watson and Crowley before disappearing behind the doors. 

///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave some kudos on your way out. Thank you! <3


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